


The Train Goes Slow

by atrata



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrata/pseuds/atrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is patience fucking personified, and he hasn't wanted to punch Fraser in <i>days</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Train Goes Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murklins](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=murklins).



> [[podfic available](http://amplificathon.dreamwidth.org/2107634.html)]

The next time Ray hits Fraser, they're in Ray's kitchen, and he doesn't have to talk Fraser into hitting him back.

He hadn't thought Fraser pulled the punch last time, but his back slams into the counter and he realizes he was wrong, wrong, wrong-o-fucking-rama. His knees crack against the hardwood as he hits the floor. He can't even _feel_ his jaw, it hurts so bad, and maybe it'll do him a favor and fall off.

"Ray," Fraser says, and Ray holds up a hand, tries to focus. He's dizzy, and he can't stand the sound of Fraser's voice right now, and if he gets up again, one of them is going to end up in the hospital. Maybe both of them.

"Don't," he says, and there's blood in his mouth. Fraser doesn't.

The floor swims back into focus just in time for Ray to see Fraser's boots moving.

Fraser doesn't slam the door. Ray's not breathing so good.

*

Fraser shows up at the precinct the next day, bruise on his jaw and Stetson in his hands, and if anyone notices that Ray's got the same bruise, only nastier, they keep that observation to themselves.

*

"Don't do that, Fraser," Ray says over his shoulder, heading for his desk. "I thought we talked about this, and you weren't gonna do that."

He knows what Fraser's going to say, and he's right: "Do what, Ray?"

Ray slams himself back into the chair and shoves a toothpick in his mouth, bites down hard. Fraser's in the brown uniform today, and he takes off the jacket and hangs it up before he sits down on the other side of Ray's desk, starts rolling up his sleeves.

Ray starts to tell him, starts to say something about partnership or duets or hogging information, but what's the point? They've had this conversation a million times and either Fraser's a moron or Ray's no good with words, because nothing seems to change. And Fraser's _not_ a moron and Ray _isn't_ good with words, and Ray doesn't know where that leaves them.

"Hang on," he mutters, and digs in the middle drawer for the baseball that's back there. "Catch," he says, and tosses it to Fraser. Fraser's arm comes up, and Ray jerks forward and snatches the ball out of the air seconds before Fraser's hand closes around it.

"Sucks, don't it," he says, and it's not really a question.

Fraser frowns, and Ray leans back in his chair, juggling the ball a little. Fraser's hand twitches, like maybe he wants to grab for the ball, and Ray shoves it back into the drawer. "Mine," he says, and he's not sure why.

*

"Who the hell _are_ these guys?"

Machine gun fire rips into the dumpster they're using for cover, and Fraser cracks his neck. "I don't know, Ray," he says, and he's not lying, but it's a long way from the truth.

Ray reaches around the corner of the dumpster and fires a few shots at the noise. Fire, return fire, usual drill, and Ray starts digging for his glasses. Fraser's next to him, one licked finger in the air, doing whatever Fraser does. Math, Ray thinks, something about wind speed and trajectory and ricochet angles, and then he moves into a crouch and starts edging into the alley. Ray grabs his shoulder. "Don't even think about it, Fraser. Do not--"

But Fraser's already thought about it, and he shrugs Ray's hand away and stands up. The bullets start flying and Fraser dives for a dumpster on the other side of the alley, rolls into another crouch. He makes a circling motion with his hand, and Ray guesses that means he's supposed to go around the block and come up on the guys from behind. Ray glares at him, because Fraser could have _told_ him the plan three seconds ago, but he didn't, and now Ray has to guess. Ray's tired of guessing, because one day he might guess wrong, and so long, sayonara. He shakes his head and frowns and tries to signal for Fraser to wait, but Fraser's stopped looking at him.

He's looking at Fraser, though, sees Fraser's thumb flick at his nose, which means it's time for Ray to stop thinking and start running.

He makes the block in time for the fight to really get started, in time to get a real good look as Fraser takes a two-by-four to the stomach. Time does that thing it's always doing around Fraser, goes all slow and sharp, and Ray watches as Fraser's body crumples and slides to the ground. One of the goons points his gun at Fraser's head, and Ray loses his mind or something, shoots the thing right out of his hand. Dangerous and stupid and too close to Fraser, but then Fraser twists up off the ground and Dief flies in out of nowhere and someone gets a few shots off but they're all alive alive alive, and time goes back to normal.

From there, it's three-on-three and over quickly, and Ray hears the sirens as he's slapping cuffs on the last guy. His hands are shaking and Fraser has to prompt him twice during the Miranda portion of the show.

"Are you all right, Ray?"

"No," Ray snaps, and it's all he can do not to put his fist into a wall or a window or Fraser's face. "No, Fraser, all right is not something I am. I almost shot you."

Fraser reaches for the hem of his peacoat and puts his fingers through a bullet hole Ray didn't even know was there. He feels his mouth working but he can't say anything, can't do anything, and he slides to his knees and grabs at Fraser's coat, his own fingers through the bullet hole and his head against Fraser's thigh.

"You didn't shoot me, Ray," Fraser says, reasonable and calm and infuriating. He's not moving, and his fingers are still and steady against Ray's, which won't stop shaking. Ray hits him in the thigh with his free hand.

"Shut up, Fraser," he mumbles.

"You have very good aim when you're wearing your glasses."

Ray shoves himself to his feet, jabs at Fraser's chest with two fingers. "That's not the point." The _point_ is they should have waited the thirty fucking seconds for backup. The _point_ is that no one should have shot Fraser in the coat, because the coat is really close to the Fraser. The _point_ is that Ray keeps seeing Fraser's body bent by that two-by-four, hitting the ground. The _point_ is that Ray can't fucking breathe. "My aim is not the point."

"Ah," Fraser says, and clears his throat. Ray walks to his car before Fraser asks him what the point is, then, and Fraser has to ride back to the station with Huey and Dewey.

*

"Got you something," Ray says, and hands Fraser the forms.

"Thank you," Fraser says automatically, and then he gets all uncomfortable as he reads. He tugs on his collar and rubs at his eyebrow and there's no way reading the forms is taking him this long.

"Me and Welsh and Thatcher did all the work already," Ray tells him. "All you gotta do is sign."

Fraser clears his throat and looks up. "And then what?"

"And then what? And then you can carry your gun, maybe I'll have some actual backup."

"I see," Fraser says, and then he gets up and walks out of the station, Dief on his heels. The forms are still on Ray's desk.

Ray swears under his breath and puts them through the shredder.

*

Fraser is telling him a story. It's something about toy soldiers and ballerinas.

"Wait a second," Ray says, and Fraser bites off his sentence. There's kind of a hitch in his breath, like he's annoyed that Ray's interrupted him, but Ray wants to get this right. "What color is this guy's uniform?"

They're on a stakeout, parked on a Logan Square side street, waiting for something -- anything -- to go down in the condemned building up the block. Nothing's happening, nothing's going down or up, but Ray can't look at Fraser, has to keep his eyes front. He can tell that Fraser's looking at him, though, even if he didn't see him turn his head.

"It hardly matters," Fraser says after a second.

That's bullshit, Ray thinks. "Then you got no reason not to tell me."

"Red and blue," Fraser says. His tongue drags across his bottom lip, a flash of pink in Ray's peripheral vision.

Ray nods. "Yeah," he says, more to himself than to Fraser. "Yeah, okay. Keep going."

There are a few seconds of silence, and Ray gets twitchy. He digs in his pocket for gum. Fraser finally clears his throat and says, "Soon it began to rain," and it does, water falling in sheets from the cracked-open sky like in Fraser's story.

"What the fuck," Ray says. There's not much point to being on stakeout anymore, not with visibility down to nothing, but Ray just stares out the window, watches the shine of the city on the newly wet asphalt, and listens as Fraser talks about rain and rats and cardboard boats.

"Wait a minute," he says again, but this time he turns and looks at Fraser. "Is this a _true_ story, Fraser?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ray. It's a fairy tale."

"Like the turtle and the rabbit."

"I believe you mean the tortoise and the hare, and that's a fable. A fairy tale--"

"I know what a fairy tale is, Fraser."

Fraser frowns, looks confused. "Then why--"

Ray ticks it off on his fingers. "One, you got a soldier guy, wearing blue and red. Two, soldier guy gets thrown out the window and b, I know you been on boats, Fraser, because I been on boats and ships and submarines with you. Then he gets swallowed by a fish, like a... like a sign, right, like on the boat, because then the fish gets caught by the people who threw him out the window in the first place." He pauses, but Fraser doesn't look like he's getting it. "And that, my friend, is exactly the kind of crazy shit that happens to you."

"Ah," Fraser says.

"And me, I guess."

Fraser sighs and shifts a little in his seat. "It's just a story, Ray. I've never been eaten by a fish. Although, well, there was one instance of-- ah." He clears his throat. "It's not important."

"I bet," Ray mutters, and taps his fingers on his thighs. "Okay, so how does it end?"

"I believe the stakeout's over, Ray."

"Yeah, but the story isn't. Finish it."

"All right, if you insist." Fraser's irritated. "He dies."

"How?"

"One of the children throws him into the stove."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Ray nods slowly and starts the car. "Great story, Frase."

"Thank you kindly, Ray," Fraser says, and his bitchy tone matches Ray's exactly.

Ray throws the GTO in gear and heads for the Consulate. Fraser stares out the passenger-side window and doesn't say anything.

"Wanna know what I think?"

"Almost always," Fraser mutters. They're at the Consulate, but Fraser's not getting out of the car.

"I think the toy soldier--"

"Tin soldier," Fraser says.

"Tin soldier, whatever. He was stupid. He didn't have to die. Any time, he could have said something or done something, asked for help, but he was too worried about his uniform. People would've helped him. He just, he just let it all happen, like he didn't care."

"He cared very much, Ray. The fact that he was unable to disregard his duty doesn't mean--"

"I didn't say nothing about disregarding his duty," Ray snaps. "I know about duty. But what good is he all melted in a stove? What the hell kind of duty is _that_?"

Fraser tugs at his collar. "Ah," he says. "Yes, well," and then he puts on the Mountie face and his voice gets all loud and proper. "Excellent observation, as always, Ray. It's been a real pleasure. And now, if you don't mind, I'm really quite tired."

Ray rolls his eyes and waves a hand in the air. He does mind, but trying to talk to Fraser when he's like this never does any good. "Yeah, g'night. I'll see you tomorrow. Eight?"

"Yes, if you don't mind. Thank you for the ride."

"No problemo, buddy."

*

"Express train to Crazy Town," Ray says.

There's an old guy in his living room, pacing in front of the television with his hands behind his back. He's wearing a parka and a big fur hat. "Buck Frobisher and I didn't speak for three years," the guy says.

"All aboard for not-at-all-fun times," Ray mutters, shifting on the couch. He has no idea who this guy is; he was there when Ray woke up from his nap.

"And Caroline and I-- well. She always refilled the butter dish."

Ray rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, but the guy doesn't disappear. "Do not pass go," he says. "Do not collect two hundred dollars. In fact, here." He reaches for his wallet, tosses a twenty on the table. "It's all I got."

The guy frowns at the money, and then at Ray. "Are you unhinged?" he asks, and Ray throws back his head and laughs.

"Ray," the guy says, and then he says it again and he sounds so much like Fraser that all the names click into place in Ray's head and the laughter shrivels up and dies in his throat.

"You're Fraser's dad," he says, his eyes narrowed.

The guy nods and smiles. "Very sharp. I knew I liked you." He looks pleased.

"Great," Ray says. "That's me. Friend to dead assholes everywhere."

The smile falls into a frown. "You don't even know me," he says, another echo of Fraser, all calm and reasonable and faintly offended.

"Don't need to. What do you want?"

The guy's eyebrows go up, like that was the last thing he expected Ray to ask. "Well," he says, thinking about it. "I suppose I'd like to not be dead."

Ray makes a loud honking game-show sound, and the guy jumps a little. "Wrong," Ray says. "Wrong, nuh-uh, you do _not_ want to be not-dead, because I know what that looks like, and it ain't pretty." He puts his arms out and jerks his torso around, zombie-like.

"Have you hit your head?"

Ray grunts and drops his arms, and he starts pawing through the clutter on the coffee table, looking for a piece of gum. "Yeah," he says. "Probably. Maybe. Definitely. I'm talking to you, so that's a big fat yes-o-matic."

"Yes-o--"

"Whatever, you only get a few tries with this, and your first one sucked. I can't help you with being not dead, and you know it. Try again. What do you want?"

"I want my son to be happy."

Ray swallows and turns his head to look out the window. He wants to say he can't help with _that_, either, but the words won't come. He can feel Fraser's dad looking at him. Ray isn't sure how silence between him and an imaginary pain in the ass can be awkward, but it is. They sigh at the same time, and the guy clears his throat. "To that end," he says, and then stops. "Well. To that end, I'd like to tell you that a partnership is like a marriage, and--"

Ray is suddenly off the couch, up close and personal with Fraser's dad. "I know that. You do not get to come here and--"

"Ray."

"--tell me that, I know that."

"Ray."

"I know about partners and I know about marriage and--"

"_Ray_."

"_What?_ Jeez, I guess that's where he gets it. What. What?" He shoves his hands through his hair and can't believe he's having this conversation.

"I know you know."

Ray frowns, and sits back down on the couch. "Then--

Fraser's dad sits down next to him, lowers his voice like he's got a secret. "Benton doesn't."

"What?"

"I've been trying, but-- well, you know Benton. He's stubborn. That's what I came to say."

"You came to tell me he's stubborn? Gee, thanks, Mr. Fraser, that's a good tip. Real helpful."

"Oh, didn't I say?"

"Say what?" Ray closes his eyes and drops his head back, suddenly exhausted. He's never going to call Fraser annoying again, not now that he's met his father. Can you meet dead guys? Ray's got no fucking clue. He realizes Fraser's dad is still talking, and tunes back in.

"--experience. He's trying. I understand that you're not a patient man, but you should know that he's trying. Give him some time."

When Ray opens his eyes, he's alone.

*

"Yes, thank you, I'm well aware of-- Ray."

Ray looks around Fraser's office. Empty. "Who're you talking to?"

"There's no one here."

"Huh."

"I wasn't expecting you for--" He looks at his watch. "--another half-hour."

"How's your dad?"

Fraser goes ramrod straight, his eyes widening like he's in a cartoon. It lasts about half a second, and then it's gone. "He's dead, Ray, but it's kind of you to ask." His voice is cold.

"Huh," Ray says again, and puts a toothpick in his mouth. "He's pretty chatty for a dead guy."

"What?"

Ray tries on a grin. "Relax, Fraser. I'm not calling the men in white coats."

"Ray, I don't--"

"He came to see me the other night. Good talk. Remind me about him the next time I call you annoying, okay?"

Fraser's mouth works for a few seconds, and Ray's grin takes a turn for the real. "Hey," he says, holding up his hands. "Keep going with the not talking thing, and let me get this out."

Fraser swallows and says, "Very well," but he doesn't look happy about it. He puts his hands behind his back and stands there at parade-rest. Ray rolls his eyes and leans against the doorjamb.

"He said you're trying to make this work, but you don't know how, and that I gotta be patient and help you out. So, okay. I'm not so good at patient, but that's it. That's what I came to say: Okay."

Fraser frowns at him. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Well, buddy, that makes two of us. You about ready? We gotta go talk to that pawn shop guy about the Veelander case."

"I... yes, of course." He reaches for the Stetson and follows Ray out of the Consulate.

*

Ray goes undercover.

He doesn't know how that works, exactly, since he's already undercover and underundercover is stupid, but Welsh doesn't care. The stagehands' union's getting played, something about smuggling fake Rolexes into town and selling them at merch stands, which would have been one of the stupidest things Ray had ever heard, except he's been working with Fraser for a while now. So Ray agrees to work shows at a club and keep an eye out, and Welsh agrees to get him some extra cash for the job, and Ray figures there are worse fates in life. And because one of those worse fates is having to argue about the assignment with Fraser, obviously that's what Ray's doing.

"Fraser--"

"Ray--"

"Fraser--"

"Ray--"

"FRASER."

"_Ray!_"

Ray feels his hands curling into fists and he turns around and shuts his mouth. Maybe he's itching for a fight, maybe his muscles are tense and he can't stop moving and maybe there's this buzz underneath his skin like he needs to hit something or fuck something or _feel_ something, but he doesn't know where Fraser fits into any of that except the buzzing's always worse when Fraser's saying his name like that.

"Ray, I'm simply suggesting that I set up a stakeout point in a suitable location, where I can monitor the situation."

"Monitor the situation," Ray mutters, and rubs at his eyes. He takes a few seconds and calms down a little -- patient, he thinks, patient, he is patient -- but when he turns back around and looks at Fraser, Fraser's wound all tight and that makes Ray jittery again. "The situation where I run cable at the Double Door for an hour a night? That situation?"

"I believe you're scheduled for significantly more than an hour a night, and I--"

"Do not do that right now, Fraser." He stabs one finger in Fraser's direction, takes one step closer. "Do not correct me."

"I wasn't--"

"And do not correct me about if you corrected me, because we both know what happens next, and it sucks, okay?" Fraser'd taken a step forward, too, and Ray is leaning and Fraser is leaning and they're only a few inches apart and Ray is going to vibrate right out of his skin. He brings his hands up to touch Fraser's shoulders, maybe shake some sense into him, but then he jerks them back and into the air before they make contact. He spins around, hands above his head, and gets some distance, gets some movement. Fraser's spine springs back into place. "It _sucks_," Ray tells him, "so just shut up."

"You're being unreasonable," Fraser says, and there's this gleam in his eye and this set to his jaw like he _wants_ Ray to hit him.

Ray doesn't think about it, he makes a fist and drops his shoulder and twists his body, and yeah, Fraser braces for a punch Ray doesn't throw.

"Fuck that," Ray says, because he is patience fucking personified, and he leaves to go be unreasonable somewhere else.

*

It's Saturday, and Ray's got a few things to take care of at the precinct before he starts his underundercover gig. He shows up around 11, expecting the place to be pretty empty, but Fraser's there, sitting at his desk in civvies, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. He's rummaging through the piles of paper on Ray's desk.

"Hey," Ray says.

Fraser doesn't look up, just keeps rummaging. "Good morning, Ray."

Ray drops into the chair on the other side of the desk and shoves his hands in his coat pockets, runs his fingers over the keys, the pack of gum, the wads of paper, the change, whatever the hell else is in there. "Looking for something?"

"Yes," Fraser says, and keeps looking.

Ray watches him, and when it's clear Fraser's not going to say anything else, he asks, "Wanna tell me what?"

That gets Fraser's attention, and he goes still for a few seconds before finally sitting up and looking at Ray. He looks tired, like he didn't sleep very much. He didn't shave that morning, either, and Ray spends a few seconds too long trying to figure out if he's ever seen Fraser with that much stubble.

"You're quite right, Ray," he says. "I apologize. I shouldn't be going through your things like this without permission. I didn't expect you in today."

"Oh, I get it," Ray says, raising his eyebrows. "You're sorry you got caught." Fraser clears his throat and opens his mouth, but Ray cuts him off with a laugh before he can make with more apologies. "Whatever, Frase, I don't care. My stuff, your stuff, same difference." He waves a hand in the air and then uses it to swap toothpicks. The one he's got is getting soggy. "I thought maybe I could help, is all."

"Ah," Fraser says, and Ray feels like he fucked up somehow, because Fraser doesn't say anything else.

"All right," Ray says, sighing. "Okay, you're not going to tell me, fine. I can work with that, Frase, I can." He sits forward in the chair. "But you gotta help. You say yes or no."

That little line shows up between Fraser's eyes. "Right now?"

Ray grins and shakes his head. "No, it's like twenty questions. I'm gonna ask you something about what you're looking for, and you say yes or no. Is it something about a case?"

"No," Fraser says. "Yes." He frowns a little more and looks like he wants to say something else, but Ray shakes his head real fast and grins.

"Or both. Yes or no or both, it's all good." He doesn't want Fraser tying himself in knots about this, and it's just as helpful to know something can go both ways. "Is it a file?"

"No."

"Is it a form?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Ray chews on his toothpick and leans back in the chair, pushes the front legs off the floor. Forms Fraser doesn't want to talk about. "Oh," he says, and lets the chair drop back down with a bang. "I shredded them, Frase."

Fraser stiffens in his seat, but plays dumb. "Shredded what?"

Ray rolls his eyes. "The handgun permit. That's what we're talking about, right?" He opens his coat a little so Fraser can see the badge, and he taps it with his middle finger. "Detective, see? I detected it right outta you."

Fraser clears his throat and turns his head, but he nods a little. Ray waits, his right leg bouncing up and down.

"I-- ah. Well, when you presented the forms to me, you indicated that -- at least, it seemed to me an indication that you considered me to be-- I mean-- that is, uh, if the situation is less than satisfactory--"

Ray takes pity on the guy and holds up a hand. "Stop right there. Lemme think a sec." It had been a few weeks since Ray had given him the forms, and they hadn't talked about it again. He tries to pull up the conversation, play it over in his head, put it together with what's going on now. "Oh," he says, when he gets it. "Oh, shit. Fraser. No."

Fraser's head swivels around slowly. "No," he repeats, his voice flat.

"No," Ray says again, and leans across the desk. He realizes he's about to grab Fraser's hand, and grabs the stapler instead, moves it out of the way. "Fraser. I want you to listen real good, okay? Pretend I'm telling you a brand-new caribou story you ain't never heard before, and it is the best one ever." Fraser turns his head away again, and nods. "Okay, good. I said the wrong thing when I gave you those forms. I said, what, something about 'real backup,' I think--"

"'Actual backup,'" Fraser interrupts, quietly, and Ray knows he's right, knows Fraser's been in knots about this for weeks. Christ.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that. And it maybe gave you the wrong mis... the wrong con... thing, whatever, it was wrong. You _are_ actual backup and you're a good partner and I want you to carry because I worry about you, that's all, and I drink a lot of coffee and my stomach lining ain't what it used to be. I need you on this case, this stupid underundercover thing, but I do not need you there with me. You gotta be my partner on this like always, and do the shit I can't do because I'm stuck in the club. I didn't mean I don't need you at all, or that I don't need you unless you got a gun, or-- or anything, whatever. I do."

Fraser's still looking off to the side somewhere, his eyes distant and his jaw clenched hard. Ray stands up, his palms flat on his desk. He leans in, most of the way over his desk, and he's close enough to smell Fraser's soap, close enough that their foreheads are almost touching. Probably too close, but this is important.

"If I wanted a new partner, Frase, I'd tell you. I'd tell you and then I'd get one. You gotta trust me on that, I'd fucking tell you, straight up." Fraser doesn't move, and Ray pushes himself off the desk, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Okay, I'm gonna get coffee. Want some? Or tea?"

Fraser kind of shakes himself out a little. "Thank you, Ray," he says, and Ray doesn't think he's talking about the tea, but he goes to get some anyway.

*

One of the bartenders at the Double Door looks a little bit like Fraser, and Ray's had a little bit to drink, and he and Fraser are fighting again and Ray doesn't even know why -- their truce lasted maybe two days -- and the guy drops to his knees in the bathroom stall and Ray thinks being underundercover isn't so bad after all. It's not the best blowjob he's ever had -- a little clumsy, and the rhythm's all off, but it's been so long since Ray's dick felt anything other than Ray's right hand that it doesn't take long before his toes are curling in his boots and he's jerking at the guy's hair to warn him. The guy pulls away and Ray finishes himself off, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip so he doesn't make any noise.

He reaches down to return the favor when his cell phone rings, and he shoots the guy an apologetic smile and zips up. His shift was over a while ago, and Welsh needs him at the precinct, so Ray buys some bottled water and catches a cab to the 2-7.

Fraser shows up a few minutes later, and Huey and Dewey come in a few minutes after that, fresh from a crime scene, double homicide in Bridgeport, tourists, which is great. Because it's Bridgeport, the mayor already knows about it, and he's taking it fucking personally, so the commissioner's on Welsh's ass. It sucks that Huey and Dewey are running this one, but there's a look in Welsh's eyes when he tells him and Fraser they're on backup that says they're not really on backup.

"What about this underundercover thing?" Ray asks.

Welsh rubs at his temples. "Take a few days off, Detective. Call in sick. Dead bodies in Bridgeport trump union guys selling fake Rolexes to college kids."

"All right," Ray says. "All right, okay, Fraser, we gotta get caught up before we can do anything else." He turns to leave Welsh's office, and when he passes Fraser, Fraser gets real tense, real fast. "Unless you got a better idea," he says, stopping.

"No," Fraser says, his voice weird and tight and angry. "I think that's a fine idea."

"Great," Ray says, and snatches the incident reports and crime scene photos off Huey's desk on the way to his own. He sits down and spreads them out in front of him, grabs a pencil and pad of paper. He sort of expects Fraser to sit down across from him, but Fraser pulls the other chair around and sits behind Ray, leans in too close and looks over his shoulder. He clears his throat, his breath huffing over the skin of Ray's neck. Then he does it again. Ray breaks the pencil in half.

"What, Fraser? What?"

"You've been drinking," Fraser says.

Ray drains his bottle of water. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I was out, and I had a few beers, and now I am drinking water because I am not a moron. And anyway, nothing like some dead bodies to sober me up."

"Did you drive here?"

"Jeez, Fraser, no, I did not drive here. I took a cab. Anything else? Wanna check my ID? Maybe drag me into one of the interrogation rooms?"

Fraser doesn't say anything to that, and Ray thinks maybe he can work now, but then Fraser's moving closer, Fraser's got his nose almost right against Ray's neck, under his ear, Fraser's _sniffing_ him. Ray grinds his teeth and bounces his leg and drops the half of the pencil he's still holding, and then he doesn't know what the hell happens. Fraser grabs his wrist and pulls his arm up and back, and then he licks Ray's palm, his tongue hot and wet and rough.

"Fuck," Ray mutters, and he wants to say something else, but there are too many other people in the room. "What was--" and then he remembers where he was, remembers jerking off in the bathroom after the bartender'd been sucking him, remembers being in too much of a hurry to wash his hands, and he doesn't know how he'd forgotten any of that in the first place. His dick twitches in his pants and he wonders how much of it Fraser can smell on him, how much Fraser can taste.

"Fuck," he says again, and Fraser drops his hand. Ray looks over his shoulder, and Fraser's tongue is moving in his mouth, the way it does when he's trying to figure something out. Finally he swallows and sits back in his chair, his eyes unreadable.

"You broke your pencil, Ray," he says, and there goes the tongue, over his lower lip.

"Yeah, well, I was a little distracted."

"I see."

Ray swallows and wishes he had more water. This is... he doesn't know what the fuck this is, and he has to remind himself there are other people in the room, kind of a lot of other people. He can't see or hear any of them, though, because the only thing in his head is Fraser. "I bet you do," he says. "Can we work now?"

"Certainly."

*

The dead tourists in Bridgeport aren't dead tourists, so much as they're dead Russian mobsters. On the plus side, it gets Ray out of that stupid underundercover job, because no one gives a shit about fake Rolexes when the mob comes to town. On the minus side, they had to call in the Feds, which means Ray and Fraser have to pretend to investigate tourists who got caught up in a mugging.

Ray gets it -- they don't want the Russians to know the Feds are on their tail -- but Fraser's not so good at pretending or turning the other cheek or anything other than single-minded, relentless pursuit of capital-J-Justice.

"I think they were in town to pursue new business opportunities," Fraser says. "They had a meeting with--"

"Stop, Fraser, just stop," Ray says. "We are investigating dead tourists, okay? We are running ballistics and interviewing witnesses and digging up security camera footage. We are not looking into the activity of the Russian mob. We are not."

"But--"

"No. That is not our job. We have a job, and that is not it."

"I just don't think the FBI realizes--"

"Probably they don't, Fraser, but that is not our problem."

"Understood."

*

There's scratching at his door. Ray pulls his pillow over his head and tries to ignore it, but it doesn't stop. He drags his eyes open and looks at the clock -- three in the morning -- and he stumbles out of bed and into a pair of sweatpants, pulls the door open. It's Dief. The bottom drops out of Ray's stomach, and he is suddenly, horribly awake.

"Dief, what's wrong? Where's Fraser?"

Dief whines and scratches at the floor and turns in a circle, looks down the hall. "Shit," Ray says. "Shit, shit, okay," and he's dressed and out the door in record time. Dief's waiting by the car, and Ray opens the door to let him in.

"Um," he says. "Okay. How's this work? Where to?"

Dief noses at the glove box, so Ray opens it, and Dief pulls out some pamphlet about the glorious majesty of Canada. Ray doesn't know where the hell it came from, but whatever. "The Consulate it is," he says, and floors it.

No one opens the door after too many seconds of Ray pounding on it, so he kicks the damn thing down and runs for Fraser's office. He's not there, but there's no sign of a struggle. "Dief? Dief, what the fuck am I looking for?"

Dief jumps on Fraser's chair and paws at a pad of paper. It's empty, so Ray grabs a pencil and does a rubbing, gets an address. "Elston and Wabansia? That sound right to you, Dief?" Dief yips and heads for the door, Ray right behind him.

It's probably a 15-minute drive at this time of night, but Ray makes it in less than ten. The area's all abandoned warehouses and old storage places, an old industrial neighborhood sandwiched between the river and the train tracks that the yuppies haven't gotten their hands on yet. Dief's out and running as soon as the car slows down, and Ray draws his weapon and follows.

Dief just runs the fuck into one of the warehouses, and Ray barrels through right behind him. Dief wouldn't let him run into an ambush, which means Fraser's by himself, which means it's okay for Ray to be shouting Fraser's name at the top of his lungs. He finds him, finally, in a big empty room near the loading dock, beat to shit and tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth. Ray's still running, and he drops to his knees and slides over the concrete floor, right into Fraser.

Ray holsters his weapon and reaches up to put two fingers on the pulse point in Fraser's neck. The pulse is there, a little thready, but good enough, and Ray sits back on his heels to assess the damage, maybe get his own heartbeat under control. Fraser looks pretty bad, like maybe his nose is broken, and his left eye is swollen shut and crusted over, a cut above it still leaking blood.

Fraser's tunic is hanging open, and there are stains on the henley underneath, blood and dirt and sweat. "Jesus," Ray breathes, and kneels up again, cups the right side of Fraser's jaw. Fraser flinches away from the touch, and Ray pulls his hand back. "Fraser," he says. "Come on, Frase, wake up."

Fraser's right eye twitches and then opens slowly. "Shit," Ray says, because he had been cold and icy fucking calm, he had been in crisis mode, and now Fraser is alive and awake and Ray feels like someone hooked a car battery up to his spine. He's got his hands on Fraser's thighs, and he digs his fingers in. He's trying to stop his hands from shaking, but he ends up shaking Fraser instead.

Fraser blinks at him and lifts his head.

"Shit," Ray says, focusing on Fraser's bad eye, which is still bleeding. "That looks-- hang on." He takes off his holster and strips out of his t-shirt, tears it into a few pieces and kneels up between Fraser's legs to press one of the pieces above his eye. He slides his other hand around to the back of Fraser's head to steady him. "That okay?" He doesn't feel any bumps back there, and his hand isn't slick with blood, and Fraser doesn't jerk away, and that's a yes.

"Fraser," he says, and there's more to that sentence but he doesn't know the rest. Fraser blinks again, his good eye looking as wounded as the rest of him, and Ray takes another shot. "Fraser. You-- no. Fuck."

He drops his head to Fraser's shoulder, takes a few deep breaths of wool and dust and blood and sweat. He knows he's not putting as much pressure on Fraser's cut as he should be, but Fraser leans his own head forward and takes care of that for him. "Look, Fraser. You do whatever you want, okay?" Ray says, not moving his head, talking to Fraser's chest. "But I cannot keep doing this. I know you got some higher purpose or whatever, duty and honor and justice and the righteous Mountie way, but I am not a Mountie and that's not what I meant to say. Shit."

He looks up, and Fraser's got his good eye trained on Ray, watching.

Ray takes a deep breath and tries again. "This thing with us, Fraser, it is a thing. Right?"

There's no reaction from Fraser for a few seconds, but then there's a flicker of acknowledgement in that eye, and he dips his head enough to be a nod.

"Okay," Ray says. "Okay, so the thing about this thing is that I don't know what kind of thing it is, and I wanna find out, but I can't do that if you're gonna keep pulling this shit. You don't care about yourself, that's fine, but you gotta think about _me_. I can't-- this is gonna kill me, Fraser, okay? This thing is gonna kill me."

Fraser closes his eye and presses his head a little harder into Ray's hand. He takes a deep, rattling breath and then the eye opens again, nearly knocks Ray over. It's like Fraser took the lens-cap off or something. He's sorry, he's so fucking sorry, Ray can tell. The apology hangs unspoken but thrumming in the air between them.

Ray nods a little, and the look in Fraser's eye changes to a question. "I don't know," Ray says. "I don't know, okay? I don't want you to stop being Fraser, that ain't what I'm asking. You gotta do what you gotta do, I get that, you are who you are. But it's... it's like the tin soldier guy, right? You gotta ask for help sometimes, because who are you gonna be if you're dead? What good's that gonna do anyone?"

And Fraser... he thinks Fraser gets it, maybe, the look gets understanding and then goes back to sorry, and Ray can't deal with this anymore.

"Yeah, okay, that's enough," he says, and rips the tape off Fraser's mouth. Fraser sucks in his breath but doesn't move his head at all, leaves it pressed against the shredded shirt in Ray's hand.

Ray waits for him to say something, and there's something in his chest that feels a lot like hope, like maybe they're finally on the same page and Fraser's going to tell him something real.

Fraser's jaw works silently for a few seconds. "I-- ah." His voice sounds shredded, rough and rusty, like he hasn't used it in a few days, or he's been doing a lot of screaming. Ray's stomach churns, and he swallows the bile that crawls up his throat.

"Come on," he says. "Say something and we'll get the hell out of here."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser says, and Ray feels it like a punch to the gut. Fraser's eye is back to being shuttered.

Ray sits back on his heels and nods a few times. "Yeah," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "Yeah. It figures we can only talk when you've got tape on your mouth. Okay. I'll have to remember that."

They don't talk on the way back to Ray's apartment, except when Fraser says, "You didn't call for backup, Ray," and Ray tells him not to fucking start. They don't talk while Ray bandages him up, and Fraser doesn't protest when Ray tells him to take the bed. He leaves a message for Welsh, tells him what happened, and then he takes Dief and runs until his legs are jello and he can barely walk. He collapses on the couch a little after dawn.

When he wakes up, Fraser's gone, but Dief's still there. Ray calls in sick, and spends the next few days refusing to talk to anyone about anything, especially the Russian mob. He reads in the Sun-Times that there's a big bust a few days later, and he takes Dief out for another run.

*

Fraser's on an ethnic food kick, which is cool with Ray, because he likes new things and he likes good food and most the time he likes Fraser, but right now they're at an Ethiopian restaurant in Uptown and Fraser's got his eyes closed and he's sucking on his fingers and he's been lecturing Ray about the huge variety of cooking oil used in traditional Ethiopian cuisine. Between wondering about the lubrication qualities of the oil and all that licking, Ray's so hard it hurts.

It doesn't help that Ray hasn't jerked off in ages -- days, definitely, maybe longer -- because every time he starts, all he sees is Fraser. It's like now that they've admitted there's a thing, Fraser is all Ray can think about. Fraser, who smelled his skin and licked his hand and then almost got himself killed. He stares at Fraser's mouth and wants it on him, stares at Fraser's fingers and wants them in him, and he's going out of his fucking mind and Fraser's Fraser. Ray refuses to jerk off and think about Fraser if Fraser's going to insist on those stupid stunts.

He knows Fraser's sorry, knows Fraser's been trying for the last week to make it up to him, but his eye's still swollen, and every time Ray looks at him, all he can think about is that sick feeling he got when he pulled open his door and saw Dief. And that thought's pretty much all it takes for Ray's dick to settle down, and at least that's _something_.

Fraser pulls his finger out of his mouth and opens his eyes, and for a second, Ray is sure he knows what Ray's been thinking. "Ray? Is everything all right?"

"No," Ray snaps, and Fraser's eyebrows go up. Ray shouldn't do this, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, but he opens his mouth anyway. "Why you gotta do that, Fraser?"

Fraser's lips thin and he sits back in his chair. "Do what, Ray?"

Ray waves a hand at the food. "You bring me to this place where they don't even use silverware, and then you gotta yell at me about how I'm eating with the wrong hand, and you won't let me order what I wanna order because it's not as good as what you wanna order, and you won't shut up about the fucking oil, don't let me talk about what I wanna talk about, and it ain't cool, Fraser."

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice flat and not quite as earnest as it usually is. "I didn't realize. What did you want to talk about?"

"Like you care," Ray snaps. He feels itchy, and his legs are bouncing, and he knows this is the stupidest fight he's ever picked with anyone, but he's got all this shit inside him and he doesn't know what to do with it. "You're not sorry. If you were sorry every time you said you were sorry, you'd be-- you'd be-- I don't know, in a coma with all that sorry."

Fraser's lips twitch like he's about to laugh.

"That is _it_, Fraser," Ray snaps, and he stands up so fast the chair topples over. "That is enough. Let's go." He rights his chair and throws too much cash on the table and storms out of the restaurant before Fraser can say he's not finished eating.

He gets in the car and turns up Big Black so loud the windows shake with it, and he turns it up more when Fraser asks him to turn it down, but then he sees Dief in the back with his paws over his ears. He swears and bangs his fist on the steering wheel and turns the music off entirely. "Sorry, Dief," he says, "but that is the end of me buying your deaf act." Dief snorts.

"Ray," Fraser says. "I can't help but feel that I've done something wrong."

Ray grinds his teeth, swerves around a bus, and does his best Fraser impression. "Something wrong, Fraser? That's just silly. Mounties never do anything wrong."

"That's not true, Ray," Fraser says. "Mounties--"

"Yeah, I know, the killers of your father, I've heard it. A lot."

"Ah," Fraser says, and Ray lays on the horn, yells out the window for the cabbie in front of him to pick a fucking lane already. "I wasn't referring to the killers of my father."

"Oh, yeah? You referring to yourself, then, Frase? What've you done wrong?"

"I don't know," Fraser snaps. "I don't know, but I've obviously done something."

"Yeah," Ray mutters, and pulls on to Ridge, heading for Lake Shore Drive. "Yeah, of course it's you. You ever think it's me?" Because it _is_, he thinks, it must be him, because Fraser's Fraser and Ray _likes_ Fraser, doesn't want him to be someone else. He doesn't know what the fuck he wants.

"I don't understand," Fraser says, and it's obvious he doesn't, and Ray suddenly feels like the biggest shitheel in the city.

"Yeah, I know." He sighs. "Listen--"

"No," Fraser says, and Ray's so surprised that he shuts his mouth. "No," he says again. "I won't. Do you honestly believe I don't know you're picking a fight simply to pick a fight? This isn't about what happened last week, and we both know it. And that's fine, Ray, that's very mature. If you'd like to argue, I can argue--"

"Don't I know it."

"--but you do not get to be angry with me about communication issues in the future. Because this is not communication, Ray, this is--"

"Bullshit?" Ray suggests.

"Yes," Fraser says, and slumps back in the seat, crosses his arms over his chest. He's practically pouting. "This is bullshit."

"Yeah," Ray says, and then he laughs so hard he almost crashes the car into the guardrails on the S-curve. Fraser starts laughing, too, and Dief howls along in the backseat.

*

Ray pulls up to the Consulate early enough that there's easy street parking, and he hasn't had enough coffee to be in a good mood, exactly, but it's not a bad one. He pounds on the door and keeps pounding until Fraser pulls it open.

"Hey," Ray says, and he suddenly feels weird because Fraser's still in his red pajamas and his hair's all messed up. He's barefoot. "Hey, sorry, I thought you'd be up."

Fraser squints over Ray's shoulder at the sky. "It's five o'clock in the morning, Ray," he says. His voice is rough. He looks at his watch. "Not even that."

"I know," Ray says. Fraser hasn't pulled the door open to let him in, so Ray pushes past him and ignores Fraser's body, sleep-warm and too close. Ray should get a commendation from the mayor. "Aren't you usually up this early?"

Fraser sighs again and closes the door. "Not on my days off, no."

Ray nods and shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "You got the whole weekend, right? I checked on my calendar." Fraser doesn't have a calendar at the precinct, just writes his schedule on Ray's.

Fraser nods and heads for the kitchen, but he stops about six feet away and looks over his shoulder. "Is everything all right, Ray?"

"Huh? Oh. Sure, yeah, everything's good."

Fraser nods again, duty apparently satisfied, and Ray follows him into the kitchen, watches him look at the tea and then put on some coffee instead.

"So," Ray says, and sits down, and stands up, and sits down. "So, you've got the whole weekend, and I've got the whole weekend, so I thought we could do something."

Fraser's reaching for mugs, and he stops, one hand in the air, his pajamas stretched tight over the muscles of his back. Ray waits.

"At five in the morning? What'd you have in mind?" Fraser's still standing there frozen, talking to the cupboard.

Ray shrugs, but Fraser can't see it, so he says, "I dunno. Camping, maybe. It's spring, right? I heard there's birds or something we could look at."

Fraser forgets about the mugs and turns around, leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "You want to go bird-watching?" He sounds pretty skeptical.

Ray examines his thumbnail. There's dirt or something under there, even though he took a shower, and he picks at it with his pinkie. "I dunno," he says again, shrugging one shoulder. "I wanna..." He looks up at Fraser, but Fraser's face is totally blank. "I want to do something you want to do," he says carefully.

Fraser's eyebrow goes up. The coffee machine gurgles. Dief wanders into the kitchen, yawning, and Ray reaches down and scratches behind an ear. "Sorry to get you up, buddy," Ray tells Dief. He keeps his eyes on Dief and says to Fraser, "I checked, and there's a state park, maybe three hours away if we leave before traffic starts sucking, and they got horses and birds and camping and hiking and I brought my sleeping bag but you gotta bring the other stuff, because I am not buying one of those stoves."

When he glances up, Fraser's still got that not-look look on his face. Finally he says, "Diefenbaker--"

"Yeah, we'll have to leash him to get him in, but then we can let him go. It's like a million acres, so no one'll notice." Dief whines a little, and Ray goes back to scratching behind his ear. "Yeah, I know, they don't get it," he tells Dief. "Just be a few minutes, though, and then you can do your wolf thing."

"Ray, that's illegal."

Ray rolls his eyes. "City's got leash laws too, Fraser, and I don't see you caring."

"On the contrary," he says. "I've told Diefenbaker on numerous occasions--"

"You've told your deaf half-wolf about the leash laws and you think that counts as caring? Jesus, Fraser, if you don't want to go, just say that. It was a stupid idea." He pushes his hands through his hair and stares off into space, too aware of the unmoving column of red in front of him. He should leave, but he doesn't really want to.

"Yes, I know," Fraser snaps, under his breath, and he sounds angry. "This is not really a good time, in case you haven't noticed."

That does it. "Oh, I noticed," Ray says, standing up to go, not looking at Fraser.

Fraser's suddenly in front of the door, his hand out, fingers spread. "No," he says, and Ray blinks. He hadn't even seen Fraser move, and there he is. "No, please, I wasn't--" He breaks off and sighs, and his hand droops. "I didn't mean for you to leave. I apologize, Ray. You took me by surprise and I'm afraid I'm not at my best right now."

Ray looks at him for a long time, digs in his pocket for a piece of gum. "So?"

Fraser's hand droops some more. "Quite right," he says, and Ray can hear that it doesn't mean _fuck off_ like it usually does. "There's no excuse for--"

"No, no, Fraser, that's not what I meant. Everyone has shitty moods, you apologized, maybe your dad's here, whatever. I just meant, so, d'you wanna go camping or not?"

But Fraser looks at him like he's waiting for the punchline. "Well," he says, eventually.

"Well what? Jeez, Fraser, it's an easy question."

"Obviously not," he mutters. He rubs at his eyebrow, leans one shoulder against the doorjamb, crosses his arms again.

"Why not? I'm no good at waiting, Fraser, and traffic's getting shittier by the second and if you got other plans or problems, just spit it out already."

Fraser nods a little, takes a deep breath. "You said you want to do something I want to do."

"Oh," Ray says, and puts his own hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "Oh. Well, yeah. You wanna do something else? That's fine. That's great. I don't care what we do, Fraser."

He expects Fraser to argue with that, too, but Fraser just says, "I see."

"Yeah? Think you can see your way to your room, maybe pack a bag?"

It takes a few more seconds, but then Fraser actually relaxes, shoots Ray a goofy grin. "All right," he says. "Yes. I'd very much like to go camping this weekend, Ray, thank you. It's... very considerate." He pushes off the doorjamb. "I'll just go pack. I assume you can handle the coffee?"

"Yeah, yeah, coffee I can do," he says, relief swimming through his veins. He grins back at Fraser like an idiot. "Go."

*

Ray keeps falling asleep on his couch. Fraser's dad doesn't come back.

And Ray's tired of being patient, and he's tired of not jerking off, and things with him and Fraser are mostly good again, they're solving crimes and hanging out, they're a duet, and he hasn't wanted to punch Fraser in _days_, so he figures it's time to go pay the guy a visit.

"Hey," he says, letting himself into Fraser's office at the Consulate. "Your dad around?"

It's pretty early, before business hours, and Fraser's not dressed. He's standing there in the pumpkin pants and nothing else, the suspenders hanging off him, an undershirt in his hands. "I-- ah, as you can see, Ray, there's no one here."

Ray closes the door behind him and leans against it, trying not to look at Fraser's bare chest. "Because he said to be patient, Fraser, and I am. Mostly. Sometimes." Fraser raises an eyebrow. "Sort of, whatever. But I am tired of being patient, Fraser, and I don't even know what I'm being patient _for_. So I thought maybe you could ask him for me, next time you see him."

"Ah," Fraser says, and his posture gets all Mountie-stiff, and he drapes the undershirt over the back of his chair. "I don't think that's a good idea, Ray."

Ray pushes off the door and moves closer. "Why not?"

"Well," Fraser says. Ray expected him to back up, but he doesn't, he stands his ground and licks his lip and says, "I think perhaps you ought to do what you'd like to do, and not be quite so invested in the opinions of the dead."

"Yeah?" Ray says, and he's still moving, closing the distance, and that buzzing's back under his skin, but it's the good buzz, the one he gets from dancing and fucking and laughing. "Follow my instincts, you mean?"

And Fraser's not moving, Fraser's never moving, Fraser's standing there staring at Ray's mouth. "Yes," he says, his voice thick and deep in his throat.

"What if it ain't logical?" And Ray's only a few inches away, but Fraser still hasn't moved.

"I was under the impression that you found logic to be overrated in certain circumstances," Fraser says.

"Overrated," Ray repeats, but he can barely hear it over the noise in his head, the buzzing and the blood, and he doesn't know if he moves or if Fraser moves or if they move at the same time, but their lips are touching and Ray is coming apart and Fraser is putting him back together.

"Ray," Fraser says, a million years later. Ray is hard and sweating and he doesn't ever want to stop kissing Fraser, but Fraser turns his head and pulls away. Ray feels like shit for a second, like maybe he pushed too hard, but then he gets a good look at Fraser, with his messed-up hair and too-red lips and heavy breathing. Ray immediately feels better. He takes his hands off Fraser, puts them on his own thighs, bends over and breathes like he does after a run. Fraser leans on his desk and Ray can hear him trying to breathe, too.

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser says, "I have to work."

Ray nods. "Yeah, it's okay. I know. Queen and country. You done at three?"

Fraser looks at him then, and there's a weird look on his face like he doesn't know how to answer that, or like he'd maybe expected Ray to say something different. He doesn't look lost, exactly, and the kiss made it pretty fucking clear that Fraser knows what he's doing, and that he's not freaking out. Ray doesn't know what the hell the look is, but it's gone before he can figure it out, and Fraser nods.

"Okay," Ray says. "So, I'll come by a little after that, give you some time to walk Dief." He pauses. "Bye." He forces himself to walk out of there, to walk slowly down the hall and out the door, and then he can't do it anymore, he shouts and dances his way to the car, punching the air and grinning and loving _everything_.

*

"Criminals, Ray!" Fraser says, and throws himself out of the car. Ray swears and swerves and goes to back up his partner.

It's a liquor store holdup, and they bring in the perps without talking, just eye contact and hand signals and weird partner mind-reading, and Fraser doesn't do anything stupid and no one almost gets shot. Ray beats his fists against the roof of the car and whoops and dances in his seat.

"See, Fraser, _that_ is what I am talking about!"

Fraser grins at him from the passenger side, and Dief licks his ear, and they laugh and bicker over pineapple-pemmican pizza and the designated-hitter rule for the next four hours. They don't kiss, but that's fine by Ray, because Ray is patient, he is zen, he is one of those fish or rocks or whatever in one of those still and peaceful ponds, and he can wait for Fraser.

*

Ray can't sleep. He's been staring at his ceiling for what feels like hours, and sleep is a thing that is not happening for him. He rolls out of bed, pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and heads for the kitchen. Popcorn will help, he thinks, but there's a knock at his door right when the microwave beeps.

It's Fraser -- who else? -- in his civvies, and Ray jerks his head a little by way of welcome before he heads back into the kitchen.

"I thought I gave you a key," he says.

Fraser comes into the kitchen and leans against the island, puts his hat down near the phone. Ray grabs the popcorn and leans against the counter opposite him, the warm bowl held against his bare chest.

"You did, yes," Fraser says. Ray's not sure if he's looking at the popcorn or at Ray.

"So why don't you ever use it?"

"I do," Fraser tells him, and that's true enough. "But when you're not expecting me, it seems... well. I wouldn't want to interrupt."

Ray puts the popcorn down, and Fraser's eyes don't follow it. "Interrupt what?" He crosses his arms over his chest, and Fraser mimics the gesture.

"I don't know, Ray." Fraser's voice is low, and Ray starts getting hard. Fraser notices, Ray knows he notices, he stands there and watches and licks his lips and Ray gets harder and hornier and more turned on, and Fraser hasn't even _touched_ him. He's just watching it happen. Hell, Fraser's _making_ it happen.

"Jesus, Fraser," Ray mutters, and thinks, _what the hell_. He plants one hand on the counter and reaches the other into his pants, wraps it lightly around his dick. Fraser sucks in his breath and doesn't move. "This? You wouldn't want to interrupt this?"

Fraser's staring, his mouth a little open and his face a little red, and he doesn't take his eyes off Ray's hand moving under the sweatpants. Ray's grip is pretty light but he's feeling it anyway, pleasure arcing through his body. He's not sure what Fraser's going to do, if he's going to run away or offer to help, and Ray watches Fraser watch him and waits for him to decide.

It takes a while, but Fraser doesn't do either one. He doesn't move or say anything stupid like _need a hand?_ Instead, he grates out, "Show me," his voice low, and that's better, that's way better than anything Ray thought of. Ray grins, shoves his pants down to his knees.

Then he stops, squeezes the base of his cock a few times, and waits for Fraser to look at him. It takes a few seconds, but he finally does, finally looks up. "Jesus," Ray says again. "You--" But he doesn't know how to finish the sentence, doesn't know how to tell Fraser how his eyes look right now, like a storm over the lake, raging around him. He shakes his head and holds out his hand. "Lick."

Fraser doesn't break eye contact as he slowly raises his arm, wraps his hand around Ray's wrist, his grip steady and strong and warm, and licks one broad stripe over Ray's palm. "Yeah," Ray says, "yeah," and if he keeps looking at Fraser he's going to come right there. He closes his eyes and throws back his head and goes back to jerking off.

It doesn't take long. Not with Fraser's spit on his hand, hot and wet and so fucking good. Fraser's not touching him, but he might as well be -- Ray can feel him there in the room, hot and watching and waiting and wanting, and he can hear him breathing, knows he's leaning forward, probably licking his lips.

Ray's been wanting this for so long, so fucking long that he can't-- he _can't_, fuck, and he pries his eyes open at the last second to see Fraser's hands white-knuckling the counter, his entire body tense and ready and shaking, and the whole thing goes gray around the edges as Ray comes all over himself, his teeth deep in his lip, his mind totally fucking blown.

Except no, no, apparently his mind isn't blown enough for Fraser, because Fraser drops to his knees and closes his lips around the head of Ray's softening cock, sucks it gently into his mouth. Ray moans and sags against the counter, and then Fraser's licking all the come off his body and Ray is twisting and writhing and it takes all his control to keep from tackling Fraser to the ground.

He doesn't, though, he manages to stand there with his eyes closed while Fraser licks him clean, but when he hears Fraser's zipper, he can't do it anymore. He drags his eyes open and looks down, and Fraser's kneeling in front of him with a hand on Ray's side and his tongue on Ray's stomach, and he's got his jeans open and his dick out, and if Ray hadn't come a few seconds ago, he's pretty sure that sight would do the trick. As it is, his cock gives an interested twitch.

Fraser comes pretty quickly, his forehead against Ray's hip, his breath harsh and panting and damp over Ray's skin. Ray waits a few seconds and then slides to his knees, drags his hand through Fraser's come, and then taps at Fraser's mouth with his two sticky middle fingers. Fraser's mouth opens and he sucks on Ray's fingers, licks at his own come, and Ray twists and closes his own mouth over the whole mess, kisses Fraser through his fingers, fights him for a taste.

He's not really surprised when, a few minutes later, Fraser jerks away and zips up makes some noise about Dief and the Consulate.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he says, cutting off Fraser's babbling. He staggers to his feet and pulls up his sweatpants. Fraser's already at the door. "Hey," he says, grabbing Fraser's hat off the island. He walks over to the door and hands it to him with as much of a smile as he can muster. "Hey, don't forget your hat."

"Thank you," Fraser says.

"And, uh, next time? Don't knock."

One side of Fraser's mouth pulls up in that crooked grin, and he takes the hat out of Ray's hands. "Understood."

  
**FIN**  



End file.
